Or, to put it another way, I could grind up both Mystery and Style's mad genius gray matter, ram it into my earhole, and don the blingiest of the bling. Yet I still would not be able to pick up that beautiful, blond, buxom white woman. Who happens to be wearing quite the couture, white pointy hat and matching robe at a Klan social networking event punctuated with delicious marshmellow toasting over a burning cross and heart warming sing-alongs.
First of all, I would hope my sense of mortal self-preservation would overcome even my most fervored heights of sexual desperation and horniness before I would even contemplate putting myself in such a terminal situation. Much less entertain suicidal thoughts of approaching yon Elsa von Nazi.
No matter how boisterous and buxom her melon-like bosoms might be, glistening with the soft dewy sweat of a warm summer's night, wearing nothing but sheer, white, terry cloth against the chill of a sharp breeze...
(OK, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe I would try.)
But I digress. Yes, that's an extreme example, but in today's day and age such things happens in a more muted, subtle form.
Like, for example, when I was in a Fort Worth, Texas (biker) bar. While I was casually chatting up a redhead on the patio, a tattoed meathead of a biker saw me, approached me in all his cro-magnon majesty, laid a massive, greasy hand on my shoulder and quite plainly told me to leave the pub because, "We don't like your kind of people talking to our women."
Discretion was most definitely the better part of valor and I- in Pick Up parlance- ejected. And when I say ejected, I mean ran for my life.
But you get the picture. So yeah, race most definitely plays a factor in pick up. But how much?
Probably not as much as you might think no matter how dramatically pointed my real life example made it seem.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
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